


silk & snow

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Snow Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 11:05:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14851554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa pelts her uncle with a snowball and gets more than she bargained for.





	silk & snow

**Author's Note:**

> Sentence starter prompt from tumblr: “Don’t you dare throw that snowba– goddammit!”
> 
> [Requested by the lovely @machoeggsalad. And honestly I’ll take some cold weather right now too. So not looking forward to the next five months D: ]

 

           “Don’t you  _ dare  _ throw that snowba–" 

           Sansa was quicker, white pelting Petyr’s chest, knocking the rest of his warning out of his mouth.

           "–gods- _ dammit _ , Sansa!” He shouted, briefcase dropping in favor of scooping out the snow that was slithering down the inside of his jacket. Petyr knew it was fruitless the second he saw the snowball leave her hand, watching it arc straight towards him without being able to do anything. Milliseconds, really, but it felt like forever. He looked up at his niece as he dug handful after handful of snow out. “This tie is  _ silk _ !”

           “What, are you  _ serious _ ?” Sansa said, unable to contain her smile or her laughter. She was poised to make another snowball – fingers tracing over the surface (not too far from the Sansa-hand-shaped hole she just made) – though she acted as though she wasn’t. Petyr didn’t dare take his eyes off her for more than a second.

           “Of  _ course _ I’m serious, Sansa,” he huffed, still trying (and hoping) the silk could be salvaged. Maybe he  _ was _ making a bigger deal out of it than he needed to. But he loved this tie. The deep emerald paisleys outlined in silver, set atop an even darker field of silver it might as well have been black. There was a worn fold where the tie clasp always sat. Petyr couldn’t count the amount of times he’d worn this tie since he got it.

           Sansa had given him this tie. Why else would he have worn it to visit her?

           “Don’t tell me you don’t  _ like _ the cold, Petyr?” she teased, sticking her tongue out at him. Her hands gently scooped up some snow, not enough for a ball, not yet. “Maybe it’s your old man bones? I  _ knew _ you were getting old...”

           He didn’t like the cold, if he was being honest. Nothing said  _ I hate the cold _ more than getting his ass out of the Vale the minute he could, enjoying the warmth of King’s Landing. The warmth, and the fact it only rained three or four days of the year, if they were lucky. Petyr had dealt with enough rain to form a new ocean.

           Still. It was nice to visit the cold, knowing full well he had an apartment down South. It was also nice the visit the cold knowing that Sansa would be there to welcome him. 

           He watched his niece gather more and more snow, the size of an apple. He glanced to the driveway, blissfully aware that the first thing he noticed when he pulled up was the lack of cars in it save his. Back to Sansa. It was an orange, now, and ripe for throwing. 

           Petyr dropped the hopelessness of his tie. If Sansa was going to be like  _ this _ , well, it was only fair Petyr reply in kind. “I’ll show you cold.”

           He played an uncharacteristically unchivalrous uncle as he lunged towards Sansa in three strides, tackling her to the ground. Sansa’s gasp was caught in her mouth as they fell, a singular  _ fwump _ . The snow crushed beneath their combined weights. Petyr felt Sansa shiver as the cold seeped through her clothes, through the perfect mess of her curls, up along exposed skin.

           She shivered, too, when Petyr positioned his thigh between her legs. 

           “Are you cold, sweetling?” He said, watching her as he slowly (hardly even moving, really) rubbed his thigh against the join of her legs. Sansa bit the inside of her lower lip, trying to prove he wasn’t affecting her. But he always did. Always.

           “N-no. I’m fine.”

           “Are you sure?” Petyr traced the back of his fingers down her cheek, pulling an errant strand of auburn from her jaw. She was warm, warming up as he continued agonizing her with his thigh. “You feel rather cold. Would you like me to warm you up, hm?”

           Sansa didn’t respond. As if it would be difficult to get her to make noises. He particularly loved the noises she made as he made his way down her body, taking generous care of his breasts before his tongue found solace between her thighs. 

           Sansa loved that, too. 

           “Seeing how you’ve already  _ ruined _ my tie, sweetling…” he began, waiting for the realization to pop up in Sansa’s eyes. Ah– there it was. She could play the innocent, sweet, naive thing all she wanted, but the minute they were alone, Sansa was anything but. Petyr clasped both of her hands in one of his, using his free to undo the silk around his neck.. Cold fingers made it more difficult than it should have been, but Sansa didn’t notice. She was too preoccupied with what it meant, and with his leg that he was pressing up against her cunt. Sansa was the one rocking, and biting back her moans.

           No matter. Petyr would hear plenty of them soon enough.

           There was a tree narrow enough to the side of where they lay. Petyr managed to maneuver the silk around it before taking up his niece’s hands and tying them off. Not too tight – he wouldn’t want to cause any undue suspicion when the rest of the Starks came back – but tight enough that Sansa could enjoy herself.

           Her breath hitched when he secured the knot. Petyr leaned back on his feet, admiring the sight of her. Sansa’s cheeks were tinged pink – a perfect pink to match her mouth – at the cold, and at the knowing orgasm Petyr would give her. Sure, she was a brat at times, but Petyr loved it. It gave him the excuse to punish her. And more and more often, he was finding  _ very creative _ ways to dole it out.

           If he didn’t know better, Petyr would have thought Sansa threw the snowball on purpose, aiming directly at the silk. He wasn’t helping his future self, though; he’d have to be extra careful the next time he visited her in the snow.

           “I thought your parents had taught you better than to throw snowballs at your loving uncle, sweetling.” He  _ tsked _ at her, though there was no malice in it. There was – and in droves – desire in his voice. Petyr felt Sansa’s heartbeat hammer where he traced over her bound wrists, down her arms, up her neck to rest on either side of her face. His fingers lost themselves in her hair, and he could taste the faintest hint of lemons of her shampoo.

           “I…” Sansa began, desire clouding her thoughts. Each time she would open her mouth to speak, all Petyr had to do was caress her cheek, was accidentally move his leg up between hers. She was too easy! Letting her uncle do all sorts of wicked things without turning him away. As if she could.

           “You’re what, hm?” Petyr trailed his thumb over her lips, watching them squish beneath his touch. He thought he saw the quick flutter of her tongue, desperate for the taste of him. Oh, Petyr would make sure she had her fill. Enough that she would wake up tomorrow full of him, in every place imaginable.

           “Sorry,” she found her words finally, her lips pouting. “I’m sorry, Petyr. For throwing a snowball at you.”

           Petyr smiled at her apology. 

           “But in all honesty,” she chimed in, “I think you  _ are _ getting too old to visit, if you keep complaining about the cold.”

           Petyr narrowed his eyes at her. Oh, she really wanted to play the brat today, didn’t she…?

           Sansa’s smirk vanished. “What are you–!?”

           Petyr was quicker, knocking the rest of her question back into her throat as he tugged her pants down her legs, all the way to her knees. Sansa hissed as the snow caressed her bare thighs, soaking her underwear.

           Or, maybe they had been soaked already.

           Sansa tried to press her thighs together – from the cold, from the damning truth of how turned on she was – but Petyr pulled her legs apart. He’d be a liar to say he had the power to pull his gaze away from her lovely cunt dripping for him. Lovelier when he trailed his fingers up her thighs (relishing in the way Sansa shivered at his touch), pulling the bit of fabric down. Much better! Petyr could already smell her desire, and his mouth wanted nothing more than to devour her. “What would your parents say, sweetling, if they knew you taunted and teased your uncle so?”

           Sansa found that shred of sense left in the sea of wants. “My parents! They’ll be home any minute now.”

           Petyr tilted his head at her, a smile creeping up on edge of his lips as his fingers crept around her entrance. “Then you’d better come quickly.”

           Sansa let loose a low moan as Petyr dipped a finger inside her. She was wet, and warm, and divine. Buckled her hips as Petyr set up a slow, torturing rhythm, not willing to dip more than a single finger inside her yet. Where was the fun in making her come so soon (even if he knew just as well that they would be fucked if her parents came home soon. Petyr kept one ear full of her sighs and moans and one full of the silence behind them. There was enough distance to tell when the Starks would be back. At least, he hoped). He could tell Sansa was growing impatient, grinding faster, pushing her thighs against his hand as much as she could with her hands tied to the tree.

           She cried out in frustration. 

           “Are you warm yet, sweetling?”

           Sansa shook her head, eyes half-closed. “No…” Petyr transformed it into a breathy sigh as he brought his other hand up to tease at her clit. 

           “What about now?” He worked both hands in different rhythms, switching them just when Sansa was working her body in tandem. She hated him for it, now, but gods would the torture make her release that much sweeter.

           “Please…”

           Oh, so  _ now _ she was going to play the good girl? Thinking that would earn her a reward?

           Well, it would. Petyr was too far gone in his niece to deny her anything. So he pushed a second finger inside her cunt and found his own reward in the moan caught in her throat.

           Petyr maneuvered himself to nip at her neck, light enough that it would send sparks down to her cunt, but nothing hard enough to warrant fear from her family. They all knew she was without a boyfriend (focusing on her studies, she said). And given that Petyr was the only man within range of their house, well, it would be the world’s shortest round of Clue.

           He moved his head down, nudging the edge of her coat aside to bite her breast through her shirt. She jolted in the pain, but hardly a second passed before Sansa was relishing in it. Pushing her chest up into his face for more. Petyr alternated licks and bites, suddenly hating that he hadn’t completely undressed her before he began fucking her. And suddenly remembering it would be much easier to right her clothes if they were found out.

           There wasn’t anything blocking the view from the driveway to where he lay atop his niece, two hands on her cunt and her breast in his mouth.

           “Petyr, oh gods,  _ please _ …”

           Gods, he was torn. Was the sound her her begging the sweetest sound in all the world? Or was it the sound of her coming from his touch, from his cock?

           Maybe he would need to conduct some very,  _ very _ thorough experiments tonight. 

           He moved to her other breast, finding the nipple just as hard and aching for his teeth. Petyr pulled it, feeling Sansa’s cunt clenching around his fingers the harder he went. And listening to her squeal as he let go. “Please  _ what _ , sweetling?”

           Sansa’s head was tipped back against the snow, snow crusting her hair. A snow princess, perhaps. Or maybe even a princess of summer corrupted by a king of ice. Regardless: she was fucking breathtaking in the throes of her desire. 

           “Please, Petyr, please. I want to come…”

           Manners! There they were, and gods, the way she opened her eyes, her mouth, to beg for it made his cock hard. He couldn’t wait to fuck her later, stave off his own chill between her legs. 

           Petyr nipped his way back up her chest, up her neck, trailing her jaw before placing the softest kiss to her lips. His hands, meanwhile, worked harder against her clit, inside her cunt. The divine smell of her need struggled with the sweet fruit of her lip balm, and Petyr couldn’t help but smile. So innocent, was this girl lying beneath him. And so not, not when Petyr had his way. 

           His words were hardly words, the assumption of them through the short space between their mouths. “Come for me, Sansa.”

           It wasn’t long before she was, rocking her hips against his hands as Petyr worked her through her orgasm. Sansa’s cheeks were as flushed as the lips of her beautiful cunt, glistening in her own wicked need for her uncle. 

           His cock twitched again.

           Petyr staved it off – or, maybe he just made it worse? – cleaning his fingers of her come. He couldn’t get enough of her taste. 

           And he couldn’t be rude to not let Sansa taste how thoroughly corrupted she was by him. 

           Carefully, Petyr undid his tie, rubbing feeling back into Sansa’s wrists. There was a red ring around her skin, nothing that wouldn’t fade in a few minutes. Sansa traced them with her fingers. Thinking about the next time he’d tie her up and do what he wanted?

           “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, sweetling.”

           Sansa looked up at him. Her clothes were wrinkled and soaked. Her hair was a worse mess, tangles and snow and dirt. And her were lips bruised and shining from their last kiss, the scent of her own desire on them. 

           And she smiled – one that Petyr swore he must have given her ten, a hundred, a thousand times. “I might have, uncle, but I wouldn’t mind another.”

           Petyr wasn’t going to last till tonight.

           Though, Petyr worried (or maybe hoped? Definitely hoped) that the lesson Sansa took away wasn’t  _ Don’t pelt your dear uncle with snow because he’ll punish you for being rude. _

           It was  _ Do it because he’ll punish you for it _ .

           As if Petyr wouldn’t oblige.


End file.
